Appearances Can Be Deceiving
by SailorChibi
Summary: Lestrade and Donovan are summoned to a warehouse by a text from Sherlock: there is a new crime scene. As soon as they arrive, Sherlock confesses to the murder. But not all is as it first seems. 5-shot, warning for off-screen rape
1. Sally

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock BBC.  
**A/N:** This was written a little while ago for a prompt on the kink meme. There will be five chapters.

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He's gone and called the freak in _again_.

Sally Donovan fumes silently for days as they keep working on the case, because she refuses to give up. She exchanges a few words with the freak as per course, but other than that she doesn't say a word to anyone. Just keeps her head down and keeps going. Once or twice she catches Lestrade looking at her nervously, like he's waiting for her to explode, but he seems to know better than to ask and so he doesn't bring it up. Smart of him, Lestrade's always had good instincts, because if she gets the chance to unload on just how furious she is... well. It will likely end with a suspension at best and the loss of her job at worst.

Just once. Just _once_ she wants to be able to solve a high profile case using the resources of their own team without depending on the freak for help. Why does Lestrade always have to go running to him? Why can't he bloody well give them a chance?

It all comes to a head when Lestrade gets a text from Sherlock informing him of a new crime scene. The bloody freak has got there before they even knew the killer had struck again! It takes effort to keep from grinding her teeth as they speed towards the scene, and that only because her dentist has repeatedly warned her about the effect it has on her enamel. She doesn't need a thousand pound bill to be the cherry on top of the fucked up cake that is her life.

The building is old and out of the way, just like the others, tucked in amongst several others by the water. Lestrade and Sally go in first, followed by the rest of their team. Upon first glance the room looks empty, but almost immediately, as soon as the lights flash on, it becomes obvious that it is not. There's a man in the middle of the room, sprawled in a heap on the floor. Normal procedure would be to check for a pulse, but in this case that's not necessary: the gaping wound across his throat makes it immediately obvious that he is very dead. The pool of blood around the body makes her feel ill.

"Jesus - Sherlock!" Lestrade says, instinctively flinging an arm up and stopping Sally in her tracks. She tears her eyes away from the body and follows his gaze over to the corner of the room.

Sherlock Holmes is standing there, wrapped up in his great black coat, the only bit clearly visible in the dim light his pale face and eyes. He says, "That man is the serial killer you have been searching for. I killed him. It was stunningly easy."

There's something a little off about his voice, but Sally can't put her finger on what it is. An uncomfortable feeling crawls up her spine and she shifts her weight, uneasy. She's been waiting for this moment for years, but now that it's here something does not seem right. So instead of marching over to the so-called great consulting detective and placing him immediately under arrest, she holds still and waits.

"Sherlock," Lestrade says after a few seconds, stunned. "What are you - where's John?"

"I killed him," Sherlock says again, ignoring Lestrade. "You can see from the knife wounds on his arms that there was a struggle. He knew that his killer - that I - was coming. Over there," and Sally can't help herself, glancing towards the set of solid copper pipes on the far side of the room that Sherlock is indicating, "there are gouges on the metal where it's been worn raw. The victim was handcuffed to the pipes but managed to get free. Dislocated a thumb and slipped one of the cuffs off, no doubt."

"Bloody hell." Lestrade looks utterly staggered. "Sherlock, where's John?"

"Upstairs."

Lestrade glances at the stairs. "Right. I - I'll go find him."

"And I'll just cuff the freak, shall I?" says Sally, unable to contain the note of glee as the shock begins to wear off. _Sherlock Holmes_ has just confessed to _murder_. She knows Lestrade, knows that the kind-hearted detective who has a massive blind spot when it comes to Sherlock Bloody Holmes would just let the man walk around free until they've got evidence, as though a confession isn't good enough. But she's been waiting for this day for a long time and she's not going to let her chance pass up.

"Yes, that's good, just stay with him." He gives her a distracted nod and takes the stairs two at a time.

"Finally," Sally says with relish, reaching for her handcuffs. The other officers spread out and begin taking care of the scene. She pays them no notice as she adds, "I knew you would break someday, freak. You've always managed to act like you were one of us, someone normal, but I _knew_..." She supposes it's well enough he took a serial killer and rapist down but that doesn't matter, not when it comes to upholding the law. She lets the cuffs dangle from her hand, anticipating the moment when they'll close around his bony wrists. God she's had dreams about this. Everyone at the Yard is going to want her bloody autograph. "C'mon, freak, let's see them."

He doesn't put his hands up, but then she's not really expecting him to and it's fine with her if she has to get a bit stern. Sally approaches quickly and grabs his sleeves and jerks his arms forward, reaching instinctively for his wrist. Her fingers come into contact with his flesh and - at first she doesn't understand, why there should be wet and sticky and slippery warmth instead of dry. At first she thinks perhaps the murder was a little bit bloodier than she'd initially thought. But then she sees the handcuffs already there, still locked, around one raw and bloody wrist, and the thumb on his other hand that is pointing in the wrong direction.

Understanding comes in a horrific jolt, and when she screams it's not the sound of a stern, composed police sergeant but rather that of a frightened child.

"LESTRADE!"

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	2. Lestrade

The torch in Lestrade's hand feels slippery with sweat. He swears softly and switches it from hand to hand, wipes his palms on his trousers as he climbs the stairs, listening carefully, expecting to hear the sound of John Watson giving help to and comforting a traumatized victim. Instead there is only silence, but it's not a good kind of quiet. It's the sort that prickles at the back of his neck and makes him feel like he's not alone, that even though the top floor of the old building is surprisingly well lit there's still a set of eyes on him that he can't see.

And there's a loud bang, and he just about jumps out of his skin.

"Who's there?" he demands, heart racing. In spite of the overhead lights he scans the floor with his torch, like the weak beam might show him something hidden. "Police! Show yourself!"

No one responds but the banging comes again, louder and more urgent, and he realizes that it's coming from a closet to his left. It sounds as though someone is hammering on the door. Torn between the thought that it could be an accomplice just as easily as it could be a second victim, he steals closer and reaches for the knob, giving it a rough twist. The door swings open and something - no, _someone _tumbles out and hits the floor hard enough to make it tremble. It only takes Lestrade a second that feels far too long to recognize John Watson.

"Bloody hell. John!" Lestrade drops to his knees and sets the torch aside. John is conscious and he starts thrashing around and making noises as soon as he's rolled over and recognizes Lestrade. The ropes binding him are tight, enough so that John's flesh has been rubbed raw and bruised in places from his struggles, and there's a patch of bright red on his right side that is definitely a source of concern. A gag has been tied over his mouth to keep him quiet and it's so tight that Lestrade can't unknot it. He reaches into his pocket and takes out his pocketknife, slicing the cords carefully, pulling that and the wad of fabric that's been forced into John's mouth out and flinging it away, forensics be damned. It's a bloody miracle the man didn't suffocate.

John coughs roughly and takes in a few noisy breaths, body shuddering. "Sherlock," he rasps at last, the word coming out in a dry gasp. "Sherlock."

"He's downstairs," says Lestrade. "He looked alright, though. But we're going to have to…" He trails off, suddenly realizing that John is shaking, and then awkwardly places a hand on John's good shoulder. "Look, mate…"

But no - John's not crying. He's laughing.

"Alright? _Alright_?" And now he_ is_ crying, a harsh, jagged sob that makes his whole body tremble. "For fuck's sake, Lestrade, let me free. I've got to see him."

There's something going on, something that Lestrade doesn't understand, but he obligingly takes his knife and sets about cutting John free. He has to peel the rope from John's flesh and it makes his stomach heave, but he controls his reaction, just barely. It must be agony, but John doesn't seem to care. As soon as his hands are free he twists upright and starts to help, pushing and shoving at the rope around his legs and ankles until he can stand up, nearly pitching forward until Lestrade grabs him and steadies him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Easy, John. Sherlock is -"

"LESTRADE!"

The voice is Sally's but he's never heard her sound like that, not ever. It sends a chill down his spine, and he shivers without meaning to. John jerks away from him and sprints to the stairs, half falling down them he's going so fast, and Lestrade is right behind him. Sally is standing a few feet from Sherlock. Handcuffs lay at her feet. She's staring down at her hands with an expression of utter horror.

"Sally?" Lestrade says and she whimpers. Actually _whimpers_.

"Sherlock," John breathes with a sort of reverence.

"John." Sherlock looks up at them, and for the first time Lestrade gets a good look at his wrists. His stomach drops so fast it's a miracle he remains standing. For the first time a flicker of awareness crosses Sherlock's face, tentative and almost afraid. "I… I killed him, John."

And he sounds unbearably young.

John doesn't spare a glance for the body. He advances across the room, hands held out at the sides in a gesture no doubt meant to be unthreatening, possibly even comforting. "I know you did, Sherlock. That was good. Very good."

"I killed him," Sherlock whispers, closing his eyes, and collapses.

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	3. Mycroft

There are no cameras, no CCTV footage, in that old building. It's the sort of place that is on the verge of being torn down, and who would bother to put cameras in a place like that? As Mycroft Holmes steps from the car and looks around, absently deducing the recent activities of every man and woman who passes, he honestly cannot decide whether he should be grateful for that or not.

If he had footage, he knows he would force himself to watch, if only because he has a burning desire to know every single thing that has been inflicted on his baby brother. He's already watched what little footage there is: John and Sherlock, disappearing into the building roughly six hours ago, and then the police arriving far too late. There is a four hour gap, and Mycroft has the (overwhelming) feeling that he should know exactly what Sherlock went through because no one found him quickly enough.

Without the footage, Mycroft's mind is supplying him with pictures best left un-described. Needless to say, by the time he makes it to the ambulance he has gone through nearly every imaginable scenario, and yet none of it prepares him for the sight of Sherlock on a trolley, his face nearly as pale as the sheet that has been pulled up over his chest. John is slumped over next to him, face tight, not even noticing the attendant that is trying to see to him. Mycroft waves her off and looks the man over before he speaks.

"John," he says quietly, and there are a good many men in the world who would have sworn that Mycroft Holmes could never sound so impossibly gentle.

"What?" John's head snaps up and he stares in Mycroft's general direction, it seems to take a moment before recognition kicks in and only then does he straighten. "Mycroft."

"Are you alright?"

"Yes. Yes, I'll be…" He breaks off with a self-deprecating laugh and drags a hand over his face. The other hand, Mycroft notes, is currently clasped in Sherlock's left hand like a lifeline. Even in unconsciousness, his baby brother is clinging to John, refusing to let go. That alone says more about Sherlock's mental state than anything else.

"Tell me," Mycroft urges and John shakes his head.

"It was… it was so bloody_ stupid_. Just Sherlock, swanning off like he always does, wanting to get the drop on the police. I still have no idea how he deduced where the crime scene would be, but he was convinced that he we'd be able to handle it. And then that man…" Pure loathing, a raw hatred that would chill a man stronger than Mycroft, crosses his face. "He was waiting. Knew we'd be coming. He knocked me out and subdued Sherlock, I don't know how. When I woke up I was tied up in a closet and Sherlock, he was…" His face crumples, tears filling his blue eyes, and his voice is quivering when he chokes out, "God. He was screaming."

Mycroft briefly closes his eyes, fighting for composure. His voice remains steady when he speaks, though. "John, I want you to go to the hospital with Sherlock. I'll see to it that the two of you aren't separated." He thinks, looking at the way that John is holding on just as tight, that there is a chance the two of them might never separate again. He is oddly alright with that. "I'll take care of everything."

John draws in a shaking breath and lets it out slowly, swallowing several times. "Thank you."

It's not necessary, John's gratitude, but Mycroft doesn't bother to say as much. He watches as the attendants swarm in, loading Sherlock into the ambulance and allowing John to awkwardly clamber in beside him. The doors shut and the truck pulls away with a squeal of breaks and the whine of a siren, piercing the night and leaving a heavy silence behind as it turns a corner. Mycroft stands there until he can no longer hear the sound. Only then does he turn and look at Detective Inspector Lestrade. One look at the man's ashen face would tell even the most unobservant that Lestrade's heard every word.

"I have some things to do," says Mycroft. "It won't take long." He'll delegate most of it to Anthea if she hasn't already taken the initiative. "Then we'll go to the hospital."

Lestrade nods silently, no arguments, and trails along behind Mycroft as Mycroft strides towards the building. And if Mycroft slows down a fraction to let the D.I. keep close, well, no one will ever know.

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	4. John

At the hospital, once the bruising and raw skin around his ankles and wrists and wound on the back of his head have all been tended to, John becomes invisible.

Well, not really, but that's what it feels like. The eyes of the doctors and nurses who are tending to Sherlock skid right over him like he's not there. No one says a word about how close he sticks to their patient, not even when he trails them right up to the doors of the private examination room and stays, still holding Sherlock's hand, while said exam is going on. To be fair, he stands up near Sherlock's face, as out of the way as he can, and does his best to ignore what's going on down below, though his bloody trained doctor's instincts won't bloody_ stop_ listing off injuries based on what the instruments they're using. It takes a lot of strength to not punch something when one of the doctors disappears between Sherlock's spread thighs to make stitches.

He's not sure how long it takes, but eventually Sherlock is wheeled out of that room and taken to a private room with two beds. He gets the feeling that one of the beds is supposed to be for him but the idea of sleeping, of ever sleeping again without hearing those screams, seems impossible. Even now, with Sherlock sleeping right beside him and their hands still clasped, he can hear the sound of those god awful screams. John's heard people scream before in Afghanistan, of course he has. None of them ever prepared him for the kind of horror that is being trapped in a closet just one floor away while your best friend is being attacked, tortured and raped. When they stopped he'd thought it meant Sherlock was dead and that was easily, _easily_, the worst moment of John Watson's life.

Mycroft and Lestrade arrive at some point, he's not really sure when. John doesn't speak to either one of them, though he's vaguely aware of conversation going on around and above him. He doesn't take his eyes off of Sherlock until Lestrade thrusts a cup of coffee into his face and holds it there for a good minute before John comes to enough to reach up and take it. He drinks in short, mechanical sips, not caring when the hot liquid burns his tongue. The world goes soft and muzzy before he's halfway through and he has just enough time to think _you bastards _before he slumps sideways into Lestrade's waiting arms.

He wakes up to Sherlock screaming.

John is moving before his body has consciously recognized that he's even awake. His shoulder flares in pain and he thinks he might have wrenched it in his scramble to get off the bed, but that doesn't matter. He shoves past the night nurse, a familiar cadence of _mustprotectSherlockneedsmeSherlock!_ burning through his veins, and somehow even in the ensuing confusion his hand finds Sherlock's. The piercing screams quiet as soon as their hands make contact. Sherlock stares and stares, eyes blown wide with bewilderment and panic, his whole body trembling from the force of his gasps, mind dulled from the heavy medication.

"It's alright," John whispers to him, throat aching under the strain of wanting to cry at seeing this man, this strong and wonderful man, broken. "I'm here, Sherlock, it's alright."

"John." Sherlock says the word like it's the only one that matters and John clambers right up onto the bed, mindful of the tubes and lines and monitors and ignoring the nurse that protests. Sherlock rolls over onto his side, and it must hurt but he doesn't seem to care; he shoves his face into John's belly and wraps his arms around John's waist and just holds on, and now John thinks they're both shaking for a different reason entirely.

"Shh, it's okay, I'm here, shh," he repeats, stroking the dark curls, his fingers dancing lightly over the crown of Sherlock's head. The nurse walks out shaking her head, displeasure set in the lines of her shoulders, and John sits there until they both fall asleep, pressing kisses against Sherlock's head and wishing that there was something, anything, that he could do.

For the rest of the time that they're in the hospital - roughly two weeks - that's exactly where he stays, and not just because Sherlock tends to have a panic attack if John so much as steps out of the room (and he's not the only one. The one time John tries to take a shower while Sherlock is asleep, he nearly bashes his head in trying to get out five minutes in, convinced that something is happening to a vulnerable Sherlock) but because he thinks he's found the place where he belongs.


	5. Sherlock

Sherlock Holmes has spent most of his life living under the guidance of one key principle: the body is transport, particularly when it comes to the will of his mind. He wilfully and pointedly ignores hunger, exhaustion, and pain on a regular basis, not giving in until his body can take no more and forces the issue - and even then he succumbs with great reluctance. He's used to that, to being able to control his body in a way that most people can only dream about, and as he steps into 221b Baker Street for the first time in over two weeks he still doesn't understand why this situation should be any different.

But it is.

_This _is something that he cannot disassociate himself from no matter how hard or how often he tries.

Oh, he's read the pamphlets. Been talked at by more people than he can count, including a therapist assigned to him by his doctor who had only lasted for about ten minutes before being chased away in a fit of tears (and really it was a surprise she lasted that long, the boredom must have been messing with his mind). He's heard it all and deleted most of it.

Because none of it explains why he can still feel the touch of those fingers or the drag of a tongue up his chest, why he still tastes blood and bile, or wakes up in a cold sweat from nightmares where he hasn't got free or John is the one who was targeted while Sherlock has to listen or watch, or startles at sudden entrances or can't tolerate touch from anyone else except for John.

This is like rebellion from his body and he wants it to _stop_ infesting his mind.

"Sherlock?" And yes, there is careful John, picking up on cues even he can't miss. He insists on announcing his presence into the room even though it's not necessary: this is the furthest they've been apart since it happened and he'd known John was right behind him.

He still flinches anyway, just a bit, and loathes himself for it.

"There you are." John looks relieved as he walks in carrying their bags, for once not making a pointed comment about how Sherlock hasn't helped.

"Where else would I go?" says Sherlock and alright, perhaps there is a bit of bitterness there. Lestrade hasn't brought him a single case, not even one that he could solve from the hospital bed - and there are a fair few of those, there always are, the common masses are so uninspiring sometimes. And he says that he won't bring any cases until _John_ says that it's alright. Sherlock huffs under his breath.

John glances over at him and then visibly hesitates, hand clenching at his side, and what he wants could not _be_ more obvious. And Sherlock wants that too, he wants John to come over and put a hand on his arm or his shoulder, or even wrap it around his waist, god forbid. Touch from John is comforting and familiar and safe in spite of the fact that they rarely touched before, so it's not something he should be craving with all the force of a withdrawal. It's a change and he just wants everything to go back to normal, but that doesn't stop him from wanting it and he just stares at John until John nods like he's said something.

"Tea, I think," he says, and then he goes into the kitchen.

Sherlock throws himself down on the sofa. It doesn't escape his notice that no matter where John moves in the kitchen he always makes sure that he can see Sherlock, and that somehow Sherlock has ended up perfectly positioned so that it's easy for John to do just that. Nor is he oblivious to the fact that when John returns with two steaming mugs in hand, he sits down beside Sherlock instead of taking his armchair - and that Sherlock has left enough room for him to do so without even consciously considering the matter.

"It's going to take time, Sherlock," John says quietly, sipping from his mug. He doesn't look over at Sherlock, just keeps staring straight ahead. "I know you want cases, something to distract yourself with, but you've got to give yourself a chance to come to terms with what happened. I know this is… hard for you. If I could…" His voice trails off. There's no need to say it. Sherlock's heard this all before, too, and every word is engrained on his memory, something he can't forget even if he wanted to.

His jaw works because there's a lot he wants to say but he doesn't know how to say it, and finally he manages to get out, "Boring."

John chuckles into his cup, a sad sound. "I know."

This time he does put his hand on Sherlock's arm, a fleeting touch until Sherlock leans into it and then it becomes more firm and understanding, and they stay there sipping their tea and watching the sunlight's progress across the room and listening to Mrs Hudson bustling around down below until they both fall asleep.

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